Time Isn't Healing
by BrokenAngelOfTime
Summary: A very depressing Draco POV oneshot. WARNING: Character death, implied sex and very emotional themes. This may make you cry. Read, review and enjoy.


**A/N: So, this is a little Draco POV one-shot sort of thing that I've been thinking about for little while now. It's sad. You might cry. I did. Just sayin'. I got the title from Tom Felton's song 'Time Isn't Healing'. Look it up; it's good. The idea is kinda sorta based off of the song 'Shattered' by Trading Yesterday. I've been listening to it writing it, at least xD As always, read, review and enjoy!**

Time. It's such an odd thing. Before the war, it was always against us. We could never get enough time, even more so in our room, where time seemed to pass faster then anywhere. We never noticed though, for when we were together, time stood still for both of us. The breathes we took were limited in that moment, but we didn't care. We had time to simply be together, and that was enough for us. He was always a simply being, finding beauty in nearly everything. Including me, even if I could and would never understand what he saw in me. I humored him, though, only to see those bright green eyes light up so. Knowing I was the only one that could make him so happy with so little made my heart ache in places I didn't know existed

It's funny. Now that the war was over, time passes so slow I'm convinced the clock in my bedroom is broken. It's not as that I'm not doing anything during the day. No, I have a job, business things to take care of and a mother to keep me busy. But time drags each and every day, reminding me each long second that passes is another where I feel nothing. I lost more in the war then anyone could understand. It wasn't family, friends, possessions or even a name, like my father. No, what I lost is deeper, more hurtful then that. I lost my hope, my life, my emotions, my love.

Harry Potter had lost his life defeating Voldemort.

We never told anyone about us. It would have only made things complicated in the end, with the war and all. We were on the two different sides of the coin, physically at least. We both knew were my heart really sat. I had to play the part, though, or have my entire family killed. Or myself.

I never really feared the thought of death. It would happen in time anyway. But, I could not allow anyone to harm my dear mother. She was such a sweet women, always acting in a selfless manner.

She reminded me of him.

He still haunted me every second of my day, including in my dreams. The nightmares of his death played every night, reminding me of my lost. They were simply salt in my wounds at that point, though. I would cry sometimes when it got too much, crying out his name in anguish. No one would hear me.

That was the most frustrating part of it all.

I couldn't tell anyone. Who would believe me? Who would understand? Who would comfort me? Who could compare to his calloused hands on my skin? Who could come close to the soft words he whispered to me while he held me? Who could say 'I love you' in such a way that made my heart ache, my throat grow dry and my breath stop?

I was cursed. There was no way out of this grief. I would always compare everyone and everything to him.

I cried about that, too. He was the first one to love me. He was the first one to give me a chance. He was the first one to touch my emotions. He was the first person I ever loved.

He was also the last one that I ever would.

I would curse out his name in the night, throwing my pillow across the room. I would scream and cry in hopes that I would feel _something_.

My results would be a sore throat, a headache and an empty heart each time.

Fuck.

People grieve and heal in different ways. I wasn't grieving or healing at all. Some days, I would pretend that the war didn't happen, imagining his warm touch on my skin and repeating the softly spoken words in my mind. Those days, I wouldn't even pull himself out of bed. Other days, I would sit and think about the way I could have changed things, how I could have saved him. My mind would go in circles for hours, leaving me with tears and a bitter taste in my mouth. There were days that I would lock myself in my room and tell myself that everything would be okay. I would rock myself to sleep, humming loudly to keep from seeing or hearing anything I didn't want to. Eventually, the tears would come, and my perfect future was destroyed with a single thought of my Gryffindor.

Those years I wasted. Those years I spent chasing what I couldn't have. Finally, I caught the prize. But at what cost? This pain? This depression? This broken heart that would never heal, no matter how much time passed?

My soul was shattered. There were days I couldn't breath, only sob. The perfect Malfoy mask was harder to keep up each day, but I did it, if only for my mother. She deserved to think her son was happy.

My mother wasn't being pushy, but she did remind me that I needed to find a wife to continue the Malfoy bloodline. I met with several pureblood women that week. One had green eyes. One had black hair. One was too tan. One was wearing red. One had a laugh that sounded like bells in my ears. I ended up crying in the bathroom during that date.

Finally, I came across a women that was nothing like him. She was stuffy, pale, auburn hair, light brown eyes. She didn't smile with her mouth or her eyes. Her laugh was fake. She made me feel nothing.

Perfect.

The courting was easy. She had no life to her, simply a doormat with a pretty figure. My mother and her met a few times over tea, and I could tell she was pleased with my choice. We were engaged a month after I met her. There was no love, no passion in our relationship. It was simply business. She didn't care to talk about feelings, the war or even school. She asked questions about the future, and it was a refreshing change.

I was able to live my life with this women for over a year before it came time to start trying to children. That's when I really lost it.

The sex wasn't the problem. She was a women, and her light, airy voice wasn't close to anything he could do during sex. He spoke in Parseltongue during sex, and dear god, did it do things to me that I didn't think were possible.

But, no, that wasn't the problem. It was the aftermath. We were laying in our bed, my arm around her warm waist. She was flushed, but she looked pleased with the past half hour. I pulled away, rolling over and ready to go to sleep.

Then, the guilt hit me.

I slept with someone else. I cheated on him. My heart would always belong to him, and I cheated on him by sleeping with her. I flung myself from the bed, gasping as the sobs wracked my chest. Grabbing my boxers off the floor, I locked myself in the bathroom.

I cried myself to sleep in the bathtub that night. I thought he would never forgive me. I thought that he would hate me. I hurt him, and I hated myself for it.

The morning after was awkward. She was in the dining room eating breakfast, sipping at her tea. Her form was graceful, and I should have been thankful for such an uncaring wife. I sat down next to her, not knowing what to say. She spoke for me.

"I cannot be married to someone who is in love with someone else so deeply, Draco. Go, court her, marry her instead. I am not who you want. You didn't see me last night."

I couldn't speak. Blinking, I finally simply said, "He's dead," and left the dining room.

Our divorce was easy, since there were not children involved. My mother was very disappointed. I couldn't tell her even if I wanted to. I felt even more terrible knowing that she had no idea. She didn't know that her son was in such a deep pit of depression. She didn't know that her son was gay.

My grief grew worse. I didn't want to eat, and each time I closed my eyes, he was there. The guilt, the pain, the love, it all ate me alive. I had no other choice, in the end. This love was too deep. I couldn't live without him, without his touch, without his life, without his love. I was nothing without him. He was the reason I lasted as long as I did. He was my reason for life, and without him, I was lost.

The end was near. My mother grew worry some, and I tried to brush her off, telling her that I was having a hard time getting over the divorce.

I hate lieing to my mother.

I sat in the bathroom that night, on the floor with my back against the wall. The lights were out, and my wand was in my hand. I pictured him in my head, clear as day. His raven hair, his emerald eyes, his tan, muscular build, the way he smiled with both his mouth and his eyes, the scar so many feared, but I never did, and all of the little things that made him so beautiful, so perfect. The perfection that was once mine.

Tears ran down my face as I lifted my wand to my chest.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I can't do this anymore. Not without you."

There was a flash of green light, and Draco Malfoy was dead.


End file.
